


Der Löwe

by Frakking_toaster



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War II, F/M, Nazi-occupied France, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Threats of Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-04
Updated: 2017-11-04
Packaged: 2019-01-29 09:35:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12628104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frakking_toaster/pseuds/Frakking_toaster
Summary: Set during Nazi occupation of Paris during the early ‘40s. Brienne de Tarth works as a singer in a club owned by Catelyn Stark. They are all members of the underground Resistance movement, acting against their occupiers. Jaime Lannister is the head of a German unit in their area of the city. Soon after his arrival, he visits the club with his men, and Brienne soon realizes there might be more to him that meets the eye.This story has been partly inspired by the Star Trek: Voyager episode "The Killing Game"





	1. The Club

**Author's Note:**

> This idea came to me one day and wouldn't let go until I sat down and typed it. I wrote the first part in a creative haze in a couple of hours, so I'm pretty sure there are some historical inaccuracies in there.  
> I might add more chapters set in this AU if the mood strikes, but this should not be seen as a story with a precise beginning and end.

Brienne De Tarth was sitting at her dressing table, adjusting her sequined bowtie before her performance, when the door to the dressing room cracked open Arya Stark’s young face appeared, barely visible in the yellow light cast by the lightbulbs on her mirror. “Nazis,” she mouthed, “with the new colonel”. Brienne nodded, tension hardening her features, and the girl scampered away, back to her duty of waiting tables. She would finally give a face to the name, she thought as she pushed herself up from the stool to retrieve her sequined blazer and her top hat. Colonel Jaime Lannister, originally a Luftwaffe pilot, had been given the task of administering the arrondissement after a close encounter with the Royal Air Force had left him maimed and unable to fly. 

_The British should have blown the asshole to pieces_. 

According to their sources, he was the son of Tywin Lannister, a powerful industrialist with ties to the Reich, and while he was no match for his father, he was still described and smart and cunning, resorting to subtle strategy rather than the brute force of his predecessors. If this was true, they would have to increase their caution. If the Jazz Club was to be exposed as an active hub of the Parisian resistance network, not only would they all be killed on the spot, but the whole network would be at a chance of being discovered and destroyed.  She gave a last look at herself in the mirror, briefly checking her make-up and her hair, and she carefully schooled her expression into a pleasant smile for her audience, trying not to let her discomfort show through. She squared her shoulders and stepped towards the stage.

***

“The first round is on the house.” Catelyn Stark bowed her head smiled politely at the group of uniformed men, her eyes trained on the new Colonel, who nodded in acknowledgement as he took off his hat and set it on the table, revealing a head of blonde hair with golden undertones, slicked back flat. Stern green eyes searched hers, studying her form, before they softened. “Thank you, Mrs…”. He spoke French with a thick German accent.

“Stark,” she offered, as she sat the full tray on the table. “Catelyn Stark. I hope you will enjoy the wine, it’s one of our best whites.” The man picked up a glass with his left hand and swirled the liquid around before taking a light sniff. “I’m sure I will not be disappointed. It looks like fine French wine.” He took a small sip and swallowed. “And it tastes accordingly,” he added, flashing her a charming smile.  _So, that’s the game he’s going to play,_ Catelyn mused as she watched him address his men in German as he pointed to the glasses of wine still untouched on the tray.

“Thank you for welcoming us into your establishment. My men have told me you provide good refreshments, entertainment and you have never failed to respect curfew.” He shot a knowing glance to the group of men in his entourage, who nodded in agreement. Podrick Payne, a young soldier who looked like he should still be in shorts, let alone in a Nazi uniform, dared a small smile at Catelyn. She bowed her head again lightly. “I am glad your men have been satisfied with the club. I hope you will enjoy your evening.”

Catelyn’s words were drowned by a round of applause and she glanced back to see that Brienne had walked onto the stage and bowed to her audience, taking her place at the microphone. Their eyes met briefly over the heads of their patrons, but the concern Catelyn saw on the tall singer’s face was gone before she could decide whether it had even been there. Brienne gave an acknowledging nod at the table of soldiers, eyes lingering briefly on the Colonel, and then turned to instruct the musicians.

Colonel Lannister cocked his head to the side and gestured at the stage with his damaged hand, covered by a white deerskin glove. “Is that a woman?” He asked Catelyn, a frown etched on his forehead. Tall and solid as she was, Brienne refused to sing in a gown, and preferred to dress in men’s clothes, the black pumps at her feet the only feminine whim she had yielded to.

“ _Mein Herr_ —” Before she could reply, Brienne’s rich alto voice filled the small room of the club on the notes of  _Je cherche un millionaire_.

“It appears she is.” He said, now intrigued, as he fished a cigarette out of the front pocked of his shirt. Podrick rushed to light the cigarette as soon as the colonel had put it between his lips. “You can leave us now, Mrs. Stark,” he dismissed her with a wave of his gloved hand, “Let me listen to this  _fräulein_ of yours.”

***

He came to her right after she had finished her performance and sat at a small table next to the bar. Sansa Stark, Catelyn’s daughter and Arya’s older sister, handed her a tonic water with a wedge of lemon and a small plate of beef and vegetable stew, which she accepted gratefully. Robb Stark was a much better marksman than he was a cook, but he had improved his skills enough to satisfy their clients and portray himself as a harmless cook working in the family business. The musicians were still on the stage, playing a slow beat as the first patrons started gathering their possessions and bode her goodbyes to her and to the Starks before they left. Less than an hour before curfew. She saw him leave his soldiers and move towards her from the corner of her eye, as she was about to dig into her stew. Tendrils of fear crawled up her spine, and suddenly she wasn’t hungry anymore.

“May I?” He asked, flashing her a smile that revealed a set of perfect white teeth. She nodded, gesturing towards the empty chair across her. He slid into the chair with ease, his smile still in place as he took her in. Feeling self-conscious under his scrutinizing gaze, she smoothed a hand through her cropped hair, mussed from wearing her top hat, and cast her eyes downward deliberately, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips. She could dissimulate her unease by playing coy; to him, she was just a young singer, while he was a handsome officer of the German army. 

_Unless he already suspects something_ , she thought with a shiver. He flicked his hand at Sansa, who poured him a whiskey. He took a small sip from his glass before he spoke again. “I just wanted to congratulate you on your performance. Your voice is everything my men told me it would be, and more. Although I have never seen a  _fräulein_ quite like you, in heels and a top hat.” He rubbed at the stubble on his square jaw with his good hand as he considered her.

Brienne sipped at her tonic water. “Thank you,  _mein Herr_ , your words are very kind. I am glad you enjoyed your evening at the club, and I hope you will be our guest again during your tenure here at our  _arrondissement_.”

“I have a feeling you will be seeing more of me in the future.” He said enigmatically, a hint of amusement dancing momentarily in his stern green eyes. They were flecked with gold, she saw. He had gold in his eyes and in his hair, and more of it in his father’s safe, otherwise he would have never had a chance at command after his accident. Her eyes fell on the gloved hand that rested on the table, next to his whiskey. It looked normal like that, a normal hand under a glove, but she knew that underneath the flesh would be blistered and charred, his fingers lacking sensitivity and motor skills.

He must have noticed her looking at his hand, because it disappeared under the table, and this time there was cold anger in his eyes when they met hers. “Enough pleasantries,” he said curtly, sending a shiver down her spine.  _He knows. God, we’re dead._  “Is there a place where we can talk more privately,  _fräulein_?”

She licked her lips nervously, fear gripping her stomach like a vice. The Briton, Jon Snow, was upstairs in the apartments with the other Stark children who were too young to help with the club. It was her duty to protect them and their only contact with the Allies, even at the cost of her own life. She could take all the blame, pretend she had been doing everything on their own, and maybe they would spare the Starks. “The backdoor of the club opens onto a blind alley.” She suggested, nodding in the general direction of the backstage.

“It will do.” He rose and offered her his arm, a pleasant smile once again plastered on his lips. In her heels, she towered over him. She hooked her arm around his, the palm of her hand resting on the rough grey cotton of his uniform jacket. The holster at his hip brushed uncomfortably against her thigh at every step, reminding her that these may very well be her final minutes. She didn’t turn back to look at Sansa as she lead Colonel Lannister through the backdoor and into the poorly lit alley. A cat scampered away, scared by the noise. Brienne had her back to the wall; she could easily maneuver herself so she could try and make a run for the main road, but she decided against it. They would take it out on the Starks if she managed to flee the Teutonic grasp.

“ _Fräulein_ -“ He started, taking a step towards her. “Brienne, Colonel. I’m Brienne De Tarth, from the city of Rouen.” She interrupted him. If he was going to kill her, at least she wanted him to know exactly who she was.

“Well, Brienne De Tarth from the city of Rouen,” Her name sounded harsh pronounced by his German lips. He slipped his hand in a pocket and retrieved a square of folded yellowed paper he handed out to her. “I don’t like this anymore than you do. I can help you.” He thrusted the note at her again, but Brienne made no movement to take it, frozen by the unexpected turn of events. It looked like she would live to see another day, but she didn’t know what to make of this man and his offer.  _A trap?_  Podrick had told them the man did not look as violent as others and had showed empathy towards the citizens, but if Lannister suspected Podrick as well…

“ _Fräulein_!“ The German exclaimed, frustrated, “we don’t have a lot of time, my men will-“ The telltale clang of the door being opened rang in her ears, and in a moment’s time she found herself slamming against the brick wall at her back, the heavy weight of Colonel Lannister pressed against her. “Play along,” he rumbled in her ear, and then his face was in her neck, stubble prickling at her skin, and his good hand flew to the small of her back, the note safe between his hand and her clothes. She dipped her head back, exposing more of her neck to him, and lifted her knee, hooking her foot behind his calf just as one of Lannister’s men stepped into the alley to remind him, in a very apologetic tone, that their curfew duty would start soon.

Lannister took a small step back but didn’t disengage from her completely, his hand still firmly pressed to her back. He barked back at the Lieutenant, something about timing and his long trip that Brienne couldn’t quite understand. She just stood there, wide-eyed, which was probably the most sensible option at the moment, but when the man moved his hand from her back, she chased after it with her own, so that when he grasped that hand she felt the note slide along her fingers.

“I am afraid I have to leave now,  _Fräulein_ Brienne,” he said, “duty calls. But be assured, it was a pleasure meeting you tonight.” He lifted her hand to press a warm kiss on her knuckles, his gloved hand ghosting at her hip for the briefest of moments.

“Will I see you again,  _mein Herr_?” She asked, out of breath, her pitch kept higher for the sake of the farce. She felt his fingers slip from her as he stepped back from her. Her arm fell limply at her side, her fist clenched around the note.

He smiled at her, a glint in his eye, and he gave her a brief nod before he turned to follow his man back into the club. 

“My name is Jaime.”

—


	2. Trust is a dangerous game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne and the Starks ponder whether Colonel Lannister is trying to lead them into a trap. Jaime and his men conveniently show up at the club again the very night of their failed raid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying to write Jaime as close as possible to canon but as we delve into the character, it becomes more and more difficult . I hope I'm making an acceptable job of this.

The tip he gave them turned out to be good. The Resistance managed to smuggle a British couple out of the city and hide all traces of their connection to the Resistance before a group of soldiers stormed the building they lived in. The raid occurred exactly on the day and hour Colonel Lannister had written on the note he’d given Brienne the night he came to the club.

That very same Colonel stood outside the building, rage burning red-hot in his eyes as his men emerged empty-handed from the building, dogs panting at their heels. The soldier they called _Der Berg_ , a giant, savage man, turned on a young woman who was carrying a meager basket of groceries, a large hand reaching for the long, brown hair tumbling down her back. Lannister stopped him with a harsh barked order just as the girl, terrified, started to cry. She dropped her basket to the ground, two apples rolling out on the cracked pavement. Lannister turned his back to the scene and stalked off towards the van. He lit a cigarette while his men loaded the dogs in the back, leaning his weight heavily against the side of the vehicle.

Arya Stark picked up the two apples and put them back into the young woman’s basket. She added two more from her own basket, as she knew the others would spoil faster after the fall. The girl thanked Arya profusely in between sobs. When two washerwomen offered to walk the shaken girl home, Arya sprinted towards the club, basket clutched tightly to her chest, to report the events to her family.

***

“It could still be a trap.” Robb said later in the day, pacing around the room. “He waltzes in, pretends to be a turncloack, and uses us to get to the roots of the Resistance before he kills us all.”

“I told Podrick what happened and asked him to keep an eye on the man, see if there might be any signs that something is going on at headquarters.” His mother said, wiping her hands on her apron as she added a bowl of chopped carrots to a huge pot simmering on the stove. “We’ll play it safe for the time being. Brienne…” she turned towards the tall woman, who was sitting at the table, lost in thought. “If he shows up at the club again, or should he accost you in the streets, play dumb. You didn’t understand what the note was about and threw it away. He’ll still suspect you, but we don’t have to make it easy for him.”

Brienne nodded. “I just want to make clear that I will not allow you or any of your children to take part in any operation he might involve me in. If he’s trying to smoke us out by pretending to help us, I don’t want him to link you to the Resistance. He won’t be able to take it out on your family then.”

Catelyn closed her eyes and sighed. “I won’t let you sacrifice yourself for us, Brienne. If they suspect we helped you in any way, they’ll find any excuse to come after us after they’ve killed you.”

At the mention of the word, Arya stopped chopping onions and stepped closer to Brienne, her small frame pressed against the taller woman. “You can’t die. You haven’t finished teaching me how to fight with a knife yet. I’ll stab them in the back before they can shoot you. They won’t know what hit them.” Brienne smiled at the child, her hand coming up to wipe a smudge of coal from her cheek with her thumb. 

“I’ll teach you some new moves on Sunday, ok?” She offered, and although Arya’s lips blossomed into a smile, the worry didn’t leave her young eyes. Brienne wondered if they would live to see Arya and her siblings be free from the fear that clawed constantly at their stomachs. She had made peace long ago with the idea of dying fighting for her country, but she couldn’t bear the thought of the Stark children not surviving the war.

“Arya, please, could you go and help your sister set the tables? The cutlery is laid out on the bar.” Catelyn said warmly to her daughter. “If Oberyn is already there, you can ask him to play something nice on the clarinet for you while you work.” Arya sighed, perfectly aware that her mother just wanted to get her out of the kitchen. “Yes, mother.” She said dejectedly as she left, with a last glance over her shoulder at Brienne.

“I’ll get a message out to Snow in the country,” Robb resumed when Arya was out of earshot. “Communication will have to be minimal until we have an idea of what to make of this Lannister guy. Renly is going to send some more information on him from a contact in Berlin. He said to watch out for a pigeon later in the week. In the meanwhile, we lie low.” He picked up his butcher’s knife and studied his own reflection in its razor-sharp blade. “Brienne, I suggest you do as my mother says. Play dumb, lie if you have to. Don’t give him a reason to suspect you acted on account of that note.”

***

Not unexpectedly, he was at the club that very same evening, again tailed by a few of his men, including young Podrick. Judging from their dark, angry faces, their mood had not improved since the morning, and one of the men growled at Sansa in bad French to bring whiskey while another forced a couple of patrons to leave their table so that they could sit by the stage, where the musicians were still tuning their instruments.

“Girl.” Lannister snapped his fingers and Arya went to their table. “How may I help you?” She said, her words gracious despite the hate that simmered in her chest.

“What’s on the menu tonight, little one?” He asked.

“Barley soup, with vegetables. It comes with a chunk of warm bread.” Arya said dutifully.

“We’ll get one for each of us. Make it double for Sergeant Clegane, or he’ll butcher your patrons before the night’s over.” he quipped, earning a guffaw from his men. Clegane – _der Berg_ – sneered at Arya and bent the fork in his hand with an effortless press of his thumb.

“All right, sirs. I will be right back.” She gave a small bow and made to leave, but Lannister’s good hand on her shoulder stopped her before she could take a second step. His hand was large, the hold of his fingers strong on her thin frame, and Arya fought her instinct to push his hand off and flee.

“I wonder, is your _fr_ _ä_ _ulein_ in man’s pants going to be singing tonight? I quite enjoyed her performance the last time I was here, and, uh, I would like to enjoy a bit more of her, if you catch my drift.” Lannister winked at his men, who once again erupted in coarse, lewd laughter. Arya might have been young, but there was no mistaking what the Colonel was implying. She knew what Nazis did to women; what Clegane had meant to do to the girl with the basket, and what Lannister meant to do to Brienne. She had started to fear for her sister Sansa, who was growing more and more beautiful with each passing day and was starting to catch young men’s attention; but she had never feared for Brienne, who was big and strong and always wore pants and jackets and had short hair that she slicked back like a gentleman’s. Men didn’t threaten her like that, and anyway, she could fight with a knife. She was disgusted at Lannister’s remark, and this time she did shrug his hand off her shoulder.

“You may talk privately to Miss De Tarth after her performance, in her dressing room, if you so wish.” Her mother answered for her, as she set the tray of drinks on the table, mirroring her actions from the first night the group of Germans had been to the club. “Colonel Lannister, I would appreciate if you would be, uh, considerate, of Brienne. And my children, they sleep upstairs. Please.” The last plea was barely more than a murmur, and Arya’s heart sank in her stomach as she half hid behind her mother, peering at the group of Germans with unrelenting hate.

“I do as I please, Mrs. Stark,” He said, voice low and threatening, narrowed green eyes boring into hers, “you might want to remember that.”

***

Brienne stepped on the stage a few moments later, and his gaze shifted to her, watching intently as she greeted her audience with a polite smile on her lips. Their eyes met as she surveyed the patrons sitting closer to the stage, and he gave her a small bow as he lit his first cigarette of the evening. She had traded her top hat and heels for a flat cap and a pair of black oxfords, and a pair of thick black suspenders held her slacks in place. She jutted out her chin at him in subtle acknowledgement, and then stuffed her hands in her pockets as her voice joined clarinet and bass in a French cover of popular American swing music. She knew better than to sing in English in front of them; they were already toeing the line with the jazz theme of the club. Someone with a little less patience might have forced them to change repertoire or shut them down entirely.

He brought a spoonful of soup to his mouth – it was tastier than the grub they got at headquarters, that was for sure -  and watched her move around the stage in well-rehearsed moves, leaning against the bassist one moment, winking at some of the regular patrons the next. In a coat and without make-up she might have fooled a few people, but despite her clothes and the hard line of her jaw, there was no mistaking her for anything but a woman. Her chest was scarce, but it was enough to stretch the fabric of a shirt that was not meant for a woman’s shape, and her hips flared slightly under the waistband of her slacks.  

She might be tall and burly, but she was a young, single woman, and while it may appear that he had an unusual taste in women, to say the least, his interest towards her would not appear overly suspicious. After his Captain had caught him with her in the back alley, his men had clapped him on the shoulder and made lewd jokes about him and the singer. He took them good-naturedly and laughed with them even as he bristled inside; but this was a solid excuse to be able to talk to the woman alone without further interruptions from his soldiers.

His previous life in Berlin also worked to his advantage. At his age, he still hadn’t married, or ever introduced a girl to his family and colleagues. They didn’t know about his sister, none of them, or he would have been expelled from the _Wehrmacht_ and left in a prison to rot for the rest of his days. They would have destroyed his family, his sister Cersei, and her – their - children. They still could, if they ever found out. So he showed his interest for the _fr_ _ä_ _ulein_ ostentatiously, effectively stifling the rumors of sodomy that had followed him from Berlin, protecting his sister, and his plan. A plan for which Cersei herself would kill him, if she only knew.

After the performance had come to an end, he put two banknotes on the table and addressed his men. “You are free to go. Make sure you pay sweet Mrs. Stark for the food and entertainment before you leave. The tip is for any inconvenience my ‘time’ with the _fr_ _ä_ _ulein_ might cause.” He added with a leer. His men snickered and started gathering their things. “Sergeant Payne, with me.” He nodded towards young Podrick, who was still nursing his first glass of whiskey. The boy looked like less of an idiot than his colleagues, and Jaime had taken a liking to him. He grabbed his own glass – his second, or third? – still half-full and he was on his feet and on his way to the stage before she could even thank the audience and the musicians.

“Another very engaging performance,” he opened with a little courteous bow. “I could have almost taken you for a real newspaper boy, weren’t you so tall.” If his jest had affected her in any way, she did not show it. She was slightly out of breath. Tonight’s songs had been more dynamic than the jazzy selection he had heard the previous time, the performance livelier, and her face was flushed with the effort of singing and dancing. It highlighted a smattering of freckles on her nose and cheekbones that he had not noticed the the first time he’s seen her from up close.

“ _Mein Herr_ ,” she replied to his greeting. She let him walk her to the bar, where the barmaid slid her a big glass of water. “I’m glad you enjoyed the show. I’m afraid that you will see all my best routines soon and grow bored of them.”

He watched her take a long drink of water before he replied. “I don’t think I will grow bored of you anytime soon, _fr_ _ä_ _ulein_.” There was a dark edge to his voice that made her startlingly blue eyes widen in fear before she could school her features. He felt an odd satisfaction in watching her shy from his gaze and wet her lips uncomfortably at his remark.

“Your manager said we could talk in your dressing room. I think it might be rather more comfortable than the alley behind the club.” He nodded towards the back of the club, his eyes never leaving hers even as he took a small sip of whiskey. He tried to think of something – anything – whose color was comparable to that of her eyes, but he came up short.

“Yes, _mein Herr_. This way.” She was subdued now, as they stepped away from the lights of the club. A light was on in the kitchen, and when he peeked inside, he saw a young man in his older teen, sitting at a table, sharpening butcher’s knives. The boy lifted his gaze to them as they walked past. He didn’t speak, but his hard stare never left Jaime until he was out of his sight. _Ok then_ , he thought. His superiors would descend on the Starks like hawks on rabbits and destroy them the moment the news spread, but he had no doubts that they would kill him and Payne if it came down to it.

“Payne, stand here and make sure nobody comes in here unless I say so.” He instructed the boy once they had reached the singer’s dressing room. He followed her in and locked the door behind him.

***

Brienne kept herself just out of his reach, watching him silently as he took a seat at her dressing table. He swirled the whiskey in the glass and drank before slamming the glass down on the wood surface with deliberate force. “Looks like you made good use of the tip I gave you, _fr_ _ä_ _ulein_.” _He’s not beating around the bush_. She swallowed a lump in her throat. “It’s Brienne.” She corrected him, buying a couple of seconds that would not help her come up with a way to extricate herself from this. If anything, she only managed to irritate him further. “Looks like you made good use of the tip I gave you, _Brienne_ ,” He repeated, drawing out her name in a way that made the hair on her arm stand. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She kept her voice stern and confident even though she felt her throat constrict with fear.

She strongly suspected he’d never had any intention to force himself on her, that it was just a charade for the benefit of his soldiers so he could justify spending time with her alone. Her thoughts went briefly back to their previous encounter, the way he had pushed against her to hide that he was slipping her a note with classified information. Maybe the soldier was in on everything, a farce within the farce to make her trust him. Maybe they had planned everything, from the note to the interruption and his own reaction. Maybe they wanted to get her flustered and confused. There was no denying that Colonel Lannister, even maimed, was a handsome man, from his green eyes speckled with gold, to his straight nose and solid presence. She idly thought that many girls would love to be in her place now, but she felt nothing but disgust for the men who wore that uniform. Except young Podrick, who’d been working for the Resistance since the day he had been enlisted.

“You don’t know.” He stood then, pacing around the small room as he spoke. “You got those Brits out just in time. No trace of them, or of anything pointing to illegal activities taking place in the building.”

She shook her head. “I don’t know what you mean, _mein Herr_. I apologize, but I don’t know any British citizens in this city, or to which building you are referring to.” She took her flat cap off and hanged it on a wooden hook next to her top hat. Maybe pretending to go about her post-performance routine would help her curb her anxiety and sound more natural, while having an excuse to avoid direct eye contact.

He took a step towards her. “Oh, you know more than you let on.”. Without the advantage of her heels, she was level with his green eyes. “Let’s see what _I_ know. You’re part of an underground network of Resistance fighters, working to boycott the German administration and end the occupation. You kill some soldiers when you can, and help people flee from occupied areas. When I gave you my note last week, you were suspicious, but you would never forgive yourself if these people had been arrested because of your excessive caution, wouldn’t you?” He reached out and hooked two fingers around her suspenders, tugging her forwards. He was so close his voice was little more than a rumble in his chest now. She could smell the whiskey on his breath, and a faint hint of cologne on his uniform. She thought about the thin dagger strapped to her arm, just inside her shirt sleeve, and calculated how much damage she could do with the small weapon at close range, and whether she could hurt or distract him enough to flee the club before he could get to his gun. _And take it out on the Starks_ , _if I manage to get away._ “Did I get this right?”

“I threw out that note, _mein Herr_. It made no sense to me, that name and numbers. I thought maybe you wanted to see me alone, after last time, and I got scared. I am sorry.” She hoped she was acting sufficiently demure, but she had an inkling that Jaime Lannister would not be easily fooled. “I am not used to that kind of attention from men, either French or German.”

“I would have been surprised of the opposite.” He quipped, and although she despised the man, his words still stung. They always did. “But you take me for a fool. You think this is a setup, that I’m pretending to help so I can get to the bottom of your organization and destroy your network. You need to convince me there is no connection between my note and the failed operation, and all you can do is give me this dumb look and these lame excuses.” He released his hold on her suspenders and stepped away to retrieve his whiskey. “If this *was* a setup, you would be already dead.” He drained the remainders of his drink. “You and your Stark friends, I suppose, although I am not yet sure whether they’re in on the game or not.”

“Mrs. Stark is a widower with five children to feed and dwindling rations. Her priorities lay with the survival of her family and of her business, she has no interest in becoming a target of investigations.” She promptly replied, hoping at least to steer his suspicions away from the family she loved like her own.

“Maybe not her, but the older child I saw looked like he would be a good partisan.” He went to sit on the small bed in the far corner of the room. “Do you sleep here?” He asked as he methodically loosened his tie and opened the first button of his well-pressed shirt. She eyed him warily, thinking she may have been mistaken about his intentions, but he did not make any further move to undress. She relaxed her stance then, letting her shoulders droop a little the tension finally eased from her muscles.

“Yes,” she conceded, glad for the temporary change of topic.

“Don’t you have your own place?”

“The Starks took me in after I lost my family when Paris was taken. I couldn’t go back to Rouen, and eventually someone pointed me to Mrs. Stark, who could use a new singer in her club.” This was a very well-rehearsed story, one that she had told a thousand times before to many people and that had never raised any further questions. Brienne’s father was still alive and well in Rouen, where he was an active member of the Resistance himself. She came to Paris voluntarily after it was occupied, to provide help where it was most needed, and it was after a Nazi raid in which some of her fellow partisans were killed that she came to work for Catelyn Stark. 

“So, you’re an orphan from Normandy, sleeping in a dressing room in a jazz club that can’t play American jazz and that has a curfew, in a city ravaged by hostile forces.” He sneered, leant back against a thin pillow propped up on the wall, with his hands on his thigh. “We couldn’t be any more different: I was born into money, never had to ask for anything, my father paved a way for me in the _Luftwaffe_ first, and in the Army after my accident.” He raised his gloved hand for her to see. “He’s close to important people in important places, you see. And yet, there’s something we do have in common.” He pushed himself off the bed, his green eyes finding hers again in the semi-darkness. “We _both_ hate Nazis.”

He unbuttoned his right cuff with his good hand and then lifted his other arm to Brienne. “Please,” he asked, and she complied, popping the button open. Of course, she realized, he had  to sell the story to his men. “I didn’t believe even for one second that you would trust me right away.  I’m trusting you not to go to my superiors to denounce me as a traitor to the Reich, though.” _Of course he knew this was a possibility._ Feeling bold, she retorted. “I’m sure that if you were trying to frame me and the Starks for something we didn’t do, your superiors would be informed.”

“Clever girl.” He flashed her a smile. “We are planning a new raid in the northern area of the arrondissement. I would tell any friends of yours to hide whatever they don’t want found.” He took her hand, like he’d done the first time, and pressed a light kiss to her knuckles. He didn’t let go of her hand right away, his rough thumb caressing the patch of dry skin where his mouth had just been. “I would be curious to know how far these freckles go.” The smile he gave her was all innocence; it a smile he knew exactly what kind of effect would have on women, and she blushed despite herself, her cheeks burning. 

His thumb lingered a little more on her hand before he released her. “We’re on the same side, Brienne,” he said, serious, all signs of playfulness gone from his face. “You may not realize it yet, but we are.”

He shrugged off his jacket and unlocked the door before he flung the jacket over his shoulder. “I will see you soon.”

“Goodbye, Jaime.” She said, the name foreign on her tongue, remembering how he’d taken his leave from her the previous time. His eyes softened at her use of his name, the thin line of his lips curling gently upwards, and for the first time since they’d met, she really believed he was telling the truth.

***


End file.
